


Come Morning Light

by BarlowGirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek and Stiles are Kidnapped, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Derek, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Derek, POV Stiles, don't get excited about any relationship but sterek in this i suck, i mean maybe?, i'm kind of impressed with how many tags there are there wow, now i'm just abusing the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarlowGirl/pseuds/BarlowGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After all, Stiles doesn’t mention that time Derek went grief-stricken and ran away from humanity, or the two or three times Derek has talked Stiles down from a panic attack, no big gestures or dramatics, just slow steady words until the overwhelming crushing anxiety eased some, or that time Stiles dug a bullet out of Derek’s stomach, swearing and sweating and cursing him and maybe crying a little, or that time with the evil, nasty little gnomes.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>There’s a lot they don’t talk about. This is just another thing to add to the list.</i>
</p>
<p>OR: Derek and Stiles get kidnapped. Or more accurately, Stiles gets kidnapped and Derek gets kidnapped looking for him, although he'll never tell Stiles that. Angst and a little violence ensures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted anything in a couple months, so I thought I'd finally kick my butt into gear and post this.
> 
> I can't remember who's read this, but it's probably Memekon, Elle Marchpane, and Chicken, because that's how I roll, bothering my friends until they read my stuff and tell me it's good :P
> 
> OH yeah, and the title is from Safe and Sound by The Civil Wars and Taylor Swift because I like it.

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles curses when he sees Derek.

In all fairness, Derek isn’t too happy to see him either.

Not in some backwoods hunter’s mountain ash and gods only know what else lined basement. Derek fucking hates basement and cellars and every fucking underground room they’ve ever fucking come up with. Bunkers. Wine cellars. Those houses that are half built into hills. Everything. This is why he lives in a loft. Spend enough time in basements and those giant tree houses people with more sense than money have start looking _real_ appealing. Derek could totally live in a tree… except nobody in his life would let him live it down, and they all already make enough jokes about his living arrangements.

“Scott’ll find you,” Derek mutters after a minute, putting his back against a corner and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Scott’s only been a werewolf for three years,” Stiles says hotly. “True Alpha,” and the way he says it is ridiculous, mocking and sarcastic and just a little reverent, “or not, he’s nineteen years old. He needs help with this shit.”

“He can survive without you for half a minute.”

“Fuck you, I know he can. I don’t know if he can find me, though, okay? He needs _help_ finding me.”

He sounds wrong, Derek can’t help thinking. Scared, or maybe something else. Guilty. His voice cracks, tight and sharp, and Derek remembers, suddenly, the Nogitsune walking around in Stiles’ body. He remembers the kidnapping it faked, tracking the kid uselessly like he was really lost, his scent a joke to try and follow, and he inhales without thinking. Stiles – Stiles stinks of fear. Fear, and pain, and blood. Honest scents, easy to track if not covered by magic or other means.

After a second, Derek pushes off from the wall, walking over to where Stiles is crumpled in the opposite corner. He looks like shit, honestly.

Keeping the wall against his back, he sinks down a few feet from Stiles. “What happened?”

“Blunt force trauma,” Stiles announces loftily. “Then a real fun trip in the trunk of a car followed by a bunch of tripping through the woods. And I mean that literally.”

“Let me see,” Derek says.

“Fuck off.”

“Would that I could.” Derek moves closer slowly, cautiously, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. He’s not entirely sure Stiles won’t bite like one if Derek gets too close too fast. And his dull human teeth probably wouldn’t hurt anymore than sharp little kitten teeth, but Derek still doesn’t want to get nipped if he doesn’t have to. “C’mon, let me see your head. Make sure your brain is still intact.”

He’s close enough to touch now, and reaches out slowly, pressing his palm against Stiles’ shoulder until he exhales and drops it, leaning forward slightly. The kid’s got a nasty gash on his temple and dark, thick blood halfway down his neck. Probably needs stitches, but Derek’s never been able to tell these things. Human healing takes so much longer, and needs so much more help. How are you supposed to know where the line is between a cut that needs to be sewn shut and one that can be left alone?

“Anywhere else?” Derek asks as casually as he can.

“Busted my leg up,” Stiles says after a minute. He’s reluctant, but he eventually lets Derek check it out. His knee’s fucked up something pretty, so swollen Derek can’t even get the leg of his jeans up over it because of how Stiles hisses in pain and goes so tense a stiff breeze would probably shatter him.

Well, shit. He’s not going to be able to run on his own.

Derek sighs and presses a hand to Stiles’ ankle, leeching some of the pain. He can do that now, at least. Make the kid a little more comfortable while they wait.

At least, until Stiles goes stiff and something cold flashes over his face. “Stop it, I hate it when you guys do that.”

Derek pulls his hand away. “Suit yourself.”

Stiles curls into himself as much as he can, good knee pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped around it. “My dad is gonna be so worried.”

“Probably,” Derek agrees, stretching his legs out in front of him. “He usually worries about you when you get kidnapped.”

“I haven’t been kidnapped in over a year,” Stiles protests. “You know, this is probably your fault. Who’d you piss off this time? Some ex-flame rise out of your love life to murder us all and – and that was a really terrible choice of wording, oh my God. Sorry.”

Derek rolls his eyes. He’s shoving his foot in his mouth, but at least there’s some of his personality back, and it's not like _that_ isn't familiar. Stiles practically lives with his foot in his mouth. That blank despair, though, scares the hell out of Derek. It reminds him of… well, he hates to admit it, but he’d rather hear smart-mouthed sarcasm than that blankness. At least it means Stiles hasn’t given up.

“You should try and get some sleep,” Derek says, leaning back against the wall. “As long as you’re not concussed, I mean. Don’t get all comatose or anything.”

“I’m fine.”

“Rest,” Derek says. “You’ll need it.”

 

 

Stiles is fucking terrified. And freezing his ass off in a basement that smells like a grave, all cold earth and rot, dampness and decay. Mountain ash buzzes just off the edges of his senses, all weird energy it never had before he was possessed. That's something special the nogitsune left him. He can still touch it, work it, but its presence leaves him with an awareness like he's accidentally touched the bathroom outlet with wet hands. There must be a ring of ash around the foundation or something, maybe outside, because Stiles can’t find it to attempt to break it. They wouldn’t exactly be likely to put it anywhere he could reach it, anyways, would they?

His knee hurts, his head hurts, his stomach hurts. His dad is going to be _so_ worried – he was supposed to be home two days ago – and Scott’s probably gonna end up doing something that gets him hurt and it’ll make Melissa sad and Kira will cry and that always makes Stiles feel _so_ guilty, and whatever the hell happened to his knee is probably going to have him on crutches for weeks. _Fuck_.

And Derek is sitting there like he’s on the couch watching the Mets.

“How are you so fucking relaxed?” Stiles asks… okay, he kind of snarls it.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “It’s not the worst kidnapping I’ve ever been through,” he points out, far too reasonably. “I’m not chained up, I still have all my clothes on, I’m not being electrocuted or cursed. Yet. You’re here, which means people are going to be looking for you.”

“People look for you,” Stiles says defensively. That clothing crack rubs something in him the wrong way, something dark and gross he doesn’t want to think about in regards to Derek because it makes him angry and sad and weird. And then he starts wanting to do weird nice things for Derek like wrapping him in blankets and feeding him soup and that just leads to a world of nope and bad decisions.

“Sometimes,” Derek agrees. “Depends on what they need.”

“We looked for you,” Stiles says, pulling his sleeves down over his hands and fighting back shivers. Why is it so _cold?_ “I looked for you. When she took you to Mexico. That time with the witches from Cleaveland. And last spring.”

Last spring, the anniversary of the fire, when Derek disappeared into the woods for two weeks, lost in the wolf, and Stiles pulled a few really illegal strings through his dad and Chris Argent and this one forest ranger who shapeshifts into something really pretty – and, also, who Stiles went down on once, which isn’t really relevant, but was kind of fun – to track Derek down and have him tranq’d and brought back to them.

They don’t really talk about that, though.

“I know,” Derek says evenly. “Stop talking. Sleep.”

“Can’t,” Stiles mumbles. “S’too cold.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Derek says, “Stiles, it isn’t cold.”

“Is too.”

“Is–” Derek makes a frustrated noise low in his throat, nearly inaudible, but Stiles has heard ones like it enough to recognize it. “Hold still.”

The next thing Stiles knows, he has a hand pressed to his forehead. He stares at Derek, suddenly not even a foot away, and everything _aches_ so badly that he can barely even think about how _close_ Derek is.

There’s a memory, half-formed, though, of his mother’s hand pressed, cool and soothing, to his forehead. She was sick already then, he thinks. Forgetting little things, like how he liked his sandwiches cut, or what drawer the dishtowels were in – the same one they’d been in since his parents moved into the house years before he was born. He was too little to notice back then, and later when he did, Mom wrote it off as a bad day, a rushed morning, not enough coffee, not enough sleep. Reassuring him. Reassuring herself, maybe.

And this is a bad place for memories.

“You’re warm,” Derek says, then, bizarrely, strips his jacket from his shoulders. “You’ve probably got a fucking infection,” he mutters, shoving the jacket at Stiles. “Of course you have an infection. God, you are a disaster.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, but pulls Derek’s jacket on. It’s still warm from his body heat and he tucks it tightly around him, tries to get somewhat comfortable against the wall. It isn’t exactly easy, but he manages to eventually find a position where his neck doesn’t feel like it’s going to break, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t… sleep… well. If you could even call it sleeping. Stiles wouldn’t. He’d call it slumping over violently shivering with occasional bouts of unconsciousness and massively terrifying fever dreams. Awesome, wonderful dreams about blood on his hands, screaming, terror on his friends’ faces. All good stuff. Not to even mention the many times he wakes himself up shivering to the soundtrack of his own teeth chattering, drifting back into a restless doze again and again.

Until a hand lands on his shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Shh, shh,” Derek says, and it’s the strangest thing Stiles has ever heard him say. “You’re okay.” He glances at the door, swallowing hard. “They’re gonna come down and take me upstairs. Don’t be a dumbass, okay?” 

“What?”

“Don’t be _stupid_ and forget you’re human,” Derek says through his teeth. “Got it?”

“ _What_?” Stiles says again, but before Derek can say anything else, the door is opening at the top of the stairs.

Derek rushes away from him, ending up in a crouch halfway across the room.

Their captors stop at the base of the stairs. There’s three of them, all thick and stocky, with probably an entire Texas Walmart’s supply of camouflage and guns between them. There’s still footsteps upstairs, though. Stiles never saw the faces of the ones who took, and they avoided talking to him. He’s still not entirely sure how many of them there are total. More of them than there are of him and Derek, for sure.

“Gonna come quietly?” one of them asks.

“Like hell,” Derek says.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, half-shoving himself up against the wall. He's still groggy and glazed with sleep, and Derek is - what is Derek thinking?

Derek turns a glare over his shoulder, eyes flashing bright blue. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Last chance,” the mouthpiece of the group says.

Derek growls, low and feral.

And they shoot him.

Stiles’ knees give out.

 

 

Derek still has his shirt. The skin on his back is numb, his head feels like it’s going to fall off, and he’s not entirely sure how he’s even remotely upright, but he still has his shirt and, really, he’s leading with the positives right now. It’s a little less positive when something lets go of his arm when they get to the bottom of the stairs, and Derek is suddenly a lot closer to the floor than he was a second ago. Huh. Well, that might explain the upright thing.

“Oh my God,” somebody loud and kind of obnoxious blurts, a second before there are scalding hot hands on Derek’s neck, his shoulders. “What did you do to him?”

“Shh,” Derek says thickly, groping around until he finds something to pat, letting his hand stay there. Obnoxious and loud, but warm. That’s nice. “Shh, ignore him,” he mumbles. He needs to be quiet. Derek can’t remember why right this second, but he knows Stiles needs to be quiet. “He’s sick.”

“Sure he is,” some other voice says. A moment later, there’s a door slamming and things are slightly quieter.

For a moment.

“I don’t wanna stay next to the stairs,” Stiles says, his fingers worrying at the back of Derek’s neck. “Can you move?”

Probably not. At least, not without an organ or two falling out. Maybe his spine.

“C’mon, I’ll help you up,” Stiles mumbles, slipping his hands under Derek’s armpits. “Not so out in the open over there. That’ll be better, right? You’re always lurking in corners. So nothing can come up behind you, I guess, but can you – I’ve got your back here. Just grab onto me, okay? Come on, big guy, we’ve got this.”

Somehow, the skinny little brat manages to get Derek to his feet. They very nearly end up back on the ground several times over before finally ending up back in the corner Stiles seems to have staked out as his. Theirs? His.

“Easy, easy,” Stiles says as he attempts to lower them both to the floor. “Don’t crack your head open. You’re bleeding enough and one head wound between us is probably enough. What happened to you?”

“Be _quiet_ ,” Derek half-begs. “My gods, you’re loud.”

“So I’ve been told.” Stiles twitches against him. “I may or may not be in a little bit of withdrawal, though.”

“What.”

“No Adderall,” Stiles says, twitching some more. A moment later, there’s something being shoved against Derek’s face. Leather. Smells like him and Stiles combined. That’s nice, actually. Oh. Jacket. “Here, use this for your head instead of the floor.”

“R’cold,” Derek says, and it’s almost words.

“I’m alright.” Stiles presses a hand to the back of Derek’s neck. He’s so _hot_ and Derek, selfishly, is incredibly grateful for his warmth. The blood lost is making him cold, he knows vaguely, and Stiles’ hands feel amazing. Their heat feels amazing, he means. “Well, I mean, I’m kind of still freezing and I’m pretty sure I’m still running a pretty decent fever, but I think you need it more right now. When you’re not all bloody and broken, we’ll switch. Take turns.”

Derek groans and shoves his face into his jacket. “Shhh,” he mumbles. “Too loud.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “Sorry. I’m – I haven’t had any of my meds in like two days. My brain’s kind of loud, too. Objectively I may be having a little bit of a panic attack.”

“Lie down,” Derek says and reaches out a hand to grab the front of Stiles’ shirt. He gives a yank, and is rewarded with the solid sound of Stiles’ back coming down against the floor. “Lie down,” he says again, letting his hand settle onto the kid’s chest as he shoves the sleeve of his jacket towards Stiles. Something for his head. “Settle. Move m’hand.”

Stiles goes quiet for a long time after that, the only sounds from him the steady noise of his breath and the jack-rabbit fast pace of his heart. He smells like Derek. Like anxiety and blood and sweat, and more than a little body odour, but also like Derek, mixed in with the unique scent that’s just _him_. It’s nice. Derek closes his eyes and breathes him in, slow and easy.

“I hate when you get all bloody,” Stiles says softly.

“Shh,” Derek says again, pressing down against Stiles’ chest. “Breathing. Focus.”

“This is really weird,” Stiles whispers, and finally goes quiet.

And thank gods. He’s still feverish, Derek thinks, skin burning hot where Derek is cold, but the shivering has eased down. They’re gonna have to figure out later why the fuck he has a fever in the first place, if Derek’s right about a possible infection or if it’s something else, and maybe do something about it before his brain boils, but Derek just can’t right now. The world is very, very sharp, too bright and jagged all over. If he was at home, Derek would be stripped naked in bed with his head buried under a pillow. He can barely stand the sensation of clothing on his skin right now.

This kind of healing is the worst, he thinks darkly, and… kind of passes out.

Derek briefly wakes up, reaching out to pull the warm body next to him closer. It squeaks, and he nudges the boy’s head down until it goes quiet, tucked down under Derek’s chin. Derek rubs a clumsy paw – hand, he corrects himself, he’s supposed to be human right now – down a warm, firm back until the boy settles down again.

Good boy, Derek thinks vaguely, and slips back under.

 

 

Holy _shit_ , but Derek is heavy. Really fucking warm, now, a hell of a lot warmer than he was before when he was all blood drained and shit, but still really heavy. Stiles tried to pull away from Mr. Grabbyhands at some point and ended up with a metric shit-ton of werewolf flopped across him with the grumpiest growl Stiles had ever heard. He’s not entirely convinced that Derek’s human brain is even remotely awake right now. And apparently the wolfy bits of him have decided that Stiles is some combination of teddy bear and mattress.

Honestly, Stiles can’t really blame him. Not for the teddy bear/mattress thing, but for the human brain being a bit offline thing? Yeah, that’s kind of understandable. He’d looked like – well, he’d looked like shit when the hunters practically threw him into the basement. Pale and sweaty and looking like he should be covered in far more of his own blood that he was. There’d been long, thin pink lines stretching up and down his back, scar tissue that looked like it’d been deep, thick wounds not so long ago. Like they’d left him just long enough to heal, like they’d only barely cleaned the blood off him. He doesn’t really want to spend too much time thinking about exactly what they’ve been doing to Derek.

Stiles flops an arm out. Okay, but seriously, he’s kind of really freaking hot here, and the furnace snoring into his neck isn’t helping at all. Oh, God, the snoring. _Right_ next to his ear, and Stiles is going claw his own ears off. Claw his own ears off _and shove them down Derek’s throat so he never makes that damn noise again_.

And of course, every time Stiles tries to move, he ends up with an irritated growl in his ear and being yanked back, often with a few clumsy pats until he settles down, only to be rewarded with an approving growl – low, deep, almost a fucking _purr_ , Jesus Christ – and seriously, Stiles is going to kill Derek with his bare hands.

With the shape he's in, Stiles could probably take him, too.

Suddenly, Derek snuffles, loudly, and the snoring stops. For a second, he presses his nose into Stiles’ neck – and then he goes stiff and immediately rolls off him.

_Air,_ thank God. Stiles immediately starfishes to get as much cool air on his hot skin as possible.  _Air_ , and so much less skin contact because holy shit having a half-naked Derek sprawled on top of him was not exactly helping the whole, you know. Dick situation. It's not like dank basements and an unconscious werewolf are what Stiles thinks about at night, but... well. It's Derek. Stiles dares anyone to have him breathe on your neck for a few hours and  _not_ get a little bit of a boner.

“And good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Stiles says loftily, stretching his arms over his head. “What, no morning snuggles?”

“I didn’t–”

“Relax,” he says, yawning, and bending his good knee to try and hide the whole pants situation. “Right around when you started growling at me when I tried to move, I figured you weren’t really awake. Do you always snore like that?”

“They broke my nose,” Derek says, and, really, that about kills Stiles’ joking mood.

“What do they want?” he asks, then, carefully, softly, “What’d they do?”

“They asked… questions,” Derek says. He’s quiet, hesitant. Lying. He’s a terrible liar. Stiles thinks the only reason he ever got away with lying to Scott was because Scott was – is – far too trusting, far too willing to believe the best of everyone. Stiles has never been fooled by Derek’s attempts at lying. “Just stay out of the way when they come back.”

“We need to get out,” Stiles decides, crossing his fingers over his stomach as his uninjured leg begins to bounce. “I think I need to either go to the hospital or at the very least get Mrs. Scott’s Mom to make sure I’m not gonna die, I need a shower like you wouldn’t believe, my dad’s probably worried sick that I’m – lying in a ditch or in someone’s basement, and I’m so hungry I could probably eat half a cow. Also you still kind of look like shit.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Stiles bounces his legs, taps his fingers, sings the dreidel song three times in his head before finally looking over at Derek.

When he does, Derek is leaning up on one elbow, frowning. “What else do you take?”

“What?” Stiles asks, blinking in surprise.

“You said something about withdrawal last night,” Derek says, sitting up. He runs a hand over his jaw. He’s already starting to look more “mountain man chic” than “ruggedly stubborn”. Stiles totally isn’t jealous. He shaves! Like twice a week even. “More than just the Adderall?”

“Yeah.” Stiles turns and stares up at the ceiling for a moment before rolling onto his side. He braces a hand against the wall and uses it to lever himself up. His knee _throbs_ and he has to stop like that to breathe deeply, locking his other knee to keep from hitting the ground again. “Yeah, it turns out that having a chaos demon lock you in your own head and use your body to murder people, and almost killing all of your friends and loved ones, and–” He makes a wild gesture at the basement. “This shit,” he says, rough, “Turns out it fucks with your head.”

He starts hobbling towards the bathroom, more hopping than anything like walking, when Derek’s voice stops him.

“I know,” he says, quiet, and that’s all.

The bathroom has no door, no mirror, no lid on the back of the toilet, and no hot water. Nothing that could be made into any sort of decent weapon. Stiles checked, as soon as they left him down here. But even if anything could be McGuivered into a weapon, it’s not exactly worth a lot versus guns, not with Stiles hardly able to walk and Derek in the condition he is.

Sitting is not fun. Neither is standing and walking, though, and peeing was an absolutely horrible time he never wants to think about again. It all pretty much hurts like a bitch.

Then he starts jittering at some point, bouncing the heel of his foot against the floor. Not that he notices until Derek reaches over and presses his hand against Stiles’ knee.

“For the love of gods, stop,” Derek says, tight and high. “That is the fucking most annoying sound I have ever heard.” He takes a slow breath. “Tell me about school.”

Stiles… is trying _really_ hard to not focus on Derek’s hand on his knee. It’s just – really warm and big and strong, and Stiles normally has a lot more self control, but he’s also normally got decent amounts of amphetamines running through his system that give him any sort of remote possibility of not focusing on the massive burning deathstar hotness that is Derek Hale’s existence.

He’s gonna fucking cry.

“Different,” he says. “None of my teachers know my name, which, let me tell you, is a completely different experience from high school. My roommate kind of hates me. But he smells like feet all the time, so no great loss there. And he’s always forgetting his keys and waking me up at like six in the morning to let him in. Also I have to keep my drugs in a lockbox in my closet or he steals my Adderall. And–” Stiles breaks off, following Derek’s glance to the door, and lowers his voice. “Are they listening to us?”

“I don’t think so,” Derek says after a minute.

“But they’re talking about us?”

Derek exhales. “Just keep talking. Just – just keep talking to me, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and watches Derek’s shoulders straighten, harden, like they’re ready to take on a great weight. So Stiles talks. He talks, about school and Scott and stupid shit he thinks about at three in the morning when he can’t sleep, and he talks right up until the door at the top of the stairs opens and he keeps talking after Derek’s gone. After a minute, anyways, and if his voice cracks, if his voice is thick and comes a little slower, well, he’s pretty sure Derek won’t mention it.

After all, Stiles doesn’t mention that time Derek went grief-stricken and ran away from humanity, or the two or three times Derek has talked Stiles down from a panic attack, no big gestures or dramatics, just slow steady words until the overwhelming crushing anxiety eased some, or that time Stiles dug a bullet out of Derek’s stomach, swearing and sweating and cursing him and maybe crying a little, or that time with the evil, nasty little gnomes.

There’s a lot they don’t talk about. This is just another thing to add to the list.

He only shuts up when they bring Derek back, and he’s hoarse by then.

Derek is barely lucid this time, again clutching a T-shirt in his fist, and going down to his knees as soon as they release him. Stiles doesn’t move until their captors go back up the stairs, and then he’s levering himself to his feet and hobbling over to Derek. Or, okay, maybe it’s a glorified hop, but he would prefer to pretend he has some dignity.

“Okay, c’mon, away from the stairs,” Stiles mutters. “I don’t want to be here and neither do you, big guy. Nice deep breath.”

He keeps mumbling nonsense as he hauls Derek basically upright. Derek leans more on him than not, nearly boneless and fucking heavy as shit. Stiles’ fucked up knee does not help and the glorified hopping thing does not do very well. They both come very close to ending up on the floor again, in a ungraceful painful heap, before Stiles manages to get Derek into what he hopes is a somewhat comfortable position. Facedown in his own jacket on the floor.

But his back looks…

Stiles hesitates for a moment before stripping off his hoodie, and wads it up. “Here, get your head up,” he tells Derek. “Up, up.”

“S’yours,” Derek mutters.

“I realize that, thank you,” Stiles replies, and shoves it at him before taking a moment to look at Derek’s back. God, he’s a fucking mess. His back is  _soaked_ with blood, dripped down his sides like he was on his stomach, some ran down to his jeans or over his shoulders. Stiles can barely tell what’s old and what’s from still open cuts, but none of it looks good. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, just stay here for a minute.”

Stiles presses a hand to a spot on Derek’s arm that seems to be relatively unscathed, prays he doesn’t hurt him when he touches, and stands, walking into the bathroom. He grips the sink with both hands and proceeds to have a minor silent breakdown, mouth pressed against the sleeve of his shirt to keep himself from making noise because holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, _holy shit_. Where the fuck is Scott? They have a deal – Scott comes and gets him when he’s kidnapped, and he doesn’t put itching powder in Scott’s underwear for the next twenty years. It’s been – God, he doesn’t even know, but it’s been _plenty long enough_. Scott needs to come get them already, or – or Stiles doesn’t know what’ll happen, but he doesn’t think Derek can take this much longer, and Stiles cannot fucking handle – he just can’t. That is not an option.

He presses a hand to where his heart is beating _way too hard_ in his chest for a moment, then turns the water on. His hands are shaking, but he strips off his long-sleeved shirt followed by the T-shirt after it, managing to button the flannel up when he puts it back on. The T-shirt he shoves into the sink and soaks, wringing out most of the water.

Then he goes back to Derek.

“Hey, buddy,” he says as he drops to his knees next to Derek. “We’re gonna get you cleaned up, okay? Don’t, like, claw my throat out or anything.”

“Your heart’s weird,” Derek slurs.

“It totally, totally is,” Stiles agrees, and lets his wet T-shirt come down onto Derek’s back as gently as he can. Derek barely flinches, and that worries him more than anything, he thinks, because he _knows_ it has to hurt. How much… no, he can’t think about that. Instead, he’s as careful as possible, and breathes apologies with each touch that makes Derek react in any manner at all.

It takes a long time to carefully clean the blood off Derek’s back, and at one point, Stiles has to go and rinse his shirt out in the sink so he’s not just smearing it around. There are cuts that aren’t healed, some still seeping blood, and some that are barely closed.

“Why aren’t you healing?” Stiles mutters under his breath, not really expecting an answer.

“Experiments,” Derek mumbles. “Weaker from healing last time…”

“Okay, okay, I change my mind, shut up,” Stiles says hastily. “It’s really freaking me out that you’re talking right now.”

“Shh, then,” Derek mutters grumpily.

Stiles has to bite back hysterical laughter.

 

 

Derek wakes up with a splitting headache, and a buzz saw going off next to his ear. For the love of gods and _goddesses_. He shoves himself up on one elbow, and hisses. His skin feels on the verge of ripping open, barely held together, and everything goes a little staticky for a moment. _Shit_.

Stiles is sleeping on the floor, curled up into himself. Snoring, of course. Derek’s just surprised he isn’t talking to himself. Somehow, he’s _not_ surprised to find Stiles’ hoodie bunched up on the floor under his own head. It’s not a terrible pillow at all, really. Smells like Stiles, something far more enjoyable than it should be. The kid has nice pheromones. That’s all. It’s totally a thing. Derek remembers watching that episode of Magic School Bus with the ants. Good pheromones are totally a thing.

And, somehow, Derek is also not surprised to find Stiles’ bloody T-shirt drying in the bathroom sink. It’s all Derek’s blood besides a few flaky, oxidized streaks that are probably from Stiles’ head wound. Good, he finally cleaned it, Derek thinks, and exhales slowly. The T-shirt looks like it’s been rinsed and wrung a few times over, tinged rusty all over, darker brown stains in other places. He can only vaguely remember making it back into the basement. Must have been a mess, and Stiles cleaned him up.

Derek is fucked.

He goes back to where the kid is sleeping, and picks up the folded hoodie. He slips it carefully under Stiles’ head, covers him with his jacket, and goes to wash his face with cold water.

Then he goes and sits down next to Stiles’ sleeping form.

He’s awake, now. He can keep watch for a bit while Stiles sleeps.

The quiet lasts a couple hours. Well,  besides the snoring and occasional mumble. Apparently Stiles is a loud sleeper. Of course he’s a loud sleeper. He’s a loud _everything._ He wakes up violently, coming awake with a start and a jolt in his heartbeat, and Derek is reaching out a hand automatically when Stiles groans and sits up, curling into himself with his hands on his head.

“I miss mattresses,” Stiles says, his voice rough with sleep.

He’s not in the best shape today. Hurting more and more, Derek can see in the way he moves, gingerly and slowly, and sleeping on a cold, damp cement basement floor is obviously not helping. Still won’t let Derek leech pain from him. And he’s… off. Restless, talking far more than he usually does, going off on tangents that aren’t actually related to anything. Stiles has a habit of rambling about nothing when he’s lying, but normally… normally he’s not like this.

“…and then I peed on Scott’s sand castle,” Stiles is saying when the door to the stairs opens.

Derek bites back a groan and starts to climb to his feet. Gods, he hopes they don’t shoot him again. He’s so sick of being shot.

“Sit,” one of their captors barks.

Derek hesitates, but Stiles grabs the back of his shirt, and yanks him down. A moment later, the man walks down the stairs, stopping about halfway down – and throws a pizza box over the railing so it lands loudly on the floor next to the stairs. Without a word, he turns and heads back up.

“They’re feeding us?” Stiles says softly behind him. “Is that good?”

“I don’t know.”

Derek puts it between them on the floor. The box is still warm, and Stiles looks like he’s about to dive headfirst into it.

“When was the last time they gave you something to eat?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs, not looking at him. “They haven’t.”

“Okay,” Derek says softly, and tries not to say anything else. “Let me try it first. If there’s something on it I can’t smell, I’ll be able to heal from it better than you.”

“And if it’s wolfsbane?”

“I’d know.” Derek shrugs. “Laura put some in my pancakes once when I was twelve, and I puked for a week.”

He opens the lid of the box, and the smell almost kills him. Especially since his stomach immediately begins to try consuming his _spine_. Taking a small bite is one of the hardest things he’s ever done, followed shortly by putting the slice down and waiting.

Stiles stares at him while he chews and swallows, and he lasts maybe thirty seconds before blurting, “Okay, that’s good enough for me. If I die eating pizza, at least I’ll die happy. Gimme.”

“Fuck it. Yeah.” Derek shoves the box towards him, but catches his wrist when he reaches for a slice. “Hey. Just eat slow. You haven’t eaten in days and I don’t need you puking on me.”

It’s the best pizza Derek has ever had. He’s tempted to down the whole slice in two, maybe three bites, but he makes himself slow down, and it’s worth it, it really is. It’s not hot, the sauce is practically ketchup, and the crust is a touch too dark, and it’s _amazing_. Derek eats two pieces in the time it takes Stiles to eat one, and stops himself from reaching for another. He needs to take his own advice here, he thinks.

“I’m getting full, but I want more,” Stiles says mournfully as he gets close to the crust of his second slice. “That’s just not fair.”

“You can eat more later,” Derek says with a grin. “It’s not gonna go anywhere.”

He hopes.

“You don’t smile enough,” Stiles blurts out of the blue, then shrugs. “S’good look on you.”

Stiles changes the subject a second later, before Derek can even _think_ about what to say to that. The kid is all over the map, heartbeat irregular and jumpy, scent doing things Derek doesn’t even know how to figure out, and he’s kind of completely lost on having any hope of figuring out if Stiles is – is being serious, or joking, or… flirting. Or what the fuck Derek would _do_ if he was flirting.

Derek has to move the pizza box out of sight to keep them both from staring at it constantly. He finds himself staring at Stiles instead, which is something he generally tries not to do.

"What, do I have pizza sauce on my face?" Stiles asks.

"No, just..." Derek doesn't how to finish.

And then the door opens.

Fuck. Derek tenses.

Stiles, meanwhile, snarks at the sound of footsteps, “Are we getting some sody-pop now? How about a bag of chips?”

Derek resists the urge to shove his face into his hands.

“Let’s go,” the hunter says.

Derek sighs and starts to rise to his feet. At least he’s healed some now. And hopefully the pizza has digested enough to stay down when the knives come out.

“Not you,” the hunter says, and points the gun at Stiles. Derek freezes. “Him. We need to have a conversation.”

“No,” Derek says bluntly, and moves between the gun and Stiles.

And then Stiles stands up behind him. Presses a hand to his shoulder, a thousand silent words in that gesture, and steps in front of Derek. “A conversation, huh? Okay. We’ll go have a _conversation_.”

Derek is going to kill him. Derek is going to absolutely murder him, figure out how the fuck Peter came back, resurrect Stiles, and murder him all over again. He presses forwards against Stiles’ hand, only to have the kid shove back against him, hard, harder than a sick, injured human should have the strength for, and turns to look back at Derek.

“Don’t,” Stiles says, low and soft and angry. “Just _don’t_.”

And he leaves.

And then Derek has to listen. It’s just talk at first, which is almost worse, he thinks. They ask him things that he tries to answer but can’t, things they’ve been asking Derek for days that he couldn’t answer, that he hasn’t been able to explain to Stiles. Stiles isn’t even as sarcastic as he usually is in answering. Tries to explain, like Derek hasn’t been trying to explain for days.

After a while, they stop asking.

Derek still has to hear.

 

 

Stiles gets shoved through the door and frankly kinda slides on one foot and his ass down the first few steps only to have the door unceremoniously slammed behind him. Apparently _he_ doesn’t get the nice escort downstairs like Derek. But, speaking of, he makes it to exactly straightening up clutching the rail before there’s a certain tall, dark, and broody werewolf in front of him.

“Lean on me,” Derek says tightly.

“What are you pissy about?” Stiles asks as they make their way down the stairs. He has to stop halfway and suck in a few shallow breaths against the burning in his ribs, clinging to the railing of the stairs and Derek about equally. “I’m – I’m the one who doesn’t heal here. You’re – you’re all shiny and new again already.”

“I know,” Derek says, and that’s it.

Stiles is too winded to say anything else until he’s easing himself – okay, _Derek_ is easing him down against the wall, and that would be embarrassing if he could breathe without it hurting.

“Can you move at all?” Derek bites out.

Stiles inhales very carefully. “Not for a while.”

“Fuck.”

Stiles leans his head back against the wall and watches Derek pace. “So. When were you going to tell me they think I’m still possessed?”

“I wasn’t.” Derek rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck almost irritably. “Nobody’s ever been possessed by a nogitsune and lived. They don’t believe me that you’re just annoying, not evil.”

“Right.” Stiles closes his eyes. “Imma take a nap now, okay?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Derek sighs, loudly. “You were saying something about… peeing on Scott’s sandcastle? What the fuck was wrong with you?”

“Excuse you, I was an awesome kid,” Stiles says. “What were you like, anyways, still all grouchy and eyebrow-y?”

Derek is quiet for a minute. “I liked baseball,” he says after a minute, and Stiles has to open his eyes for that. He’s… Derek will mention his family once in a while. Talks about Cora all the time, but she’s probably a little easier, now, what with that whole not dead thing. But the amount Stiles knows about Derek before the fire, hell, from before Scott was bit, could barely fill a shot glass, and most of it comes from that time he _actually met sixteen year old Derek_.

He clears his throat. “You play little league?”

It’s supposed to be sarcastic, but it doesn’t really come out that way. His stupid voice betrays him by going soft, and it’s ridiculous. It’s _Derek_. Stiles doesn’t get all soft-voiced for him. He’s not supposed to be tender over Derek. He’s supposed to argue with Derek, throw barbs back and forth, and then, okay, once in a while go home and jack off picturing the look on Derek’s face when Stiles says something truly inspired, annoyed and amused and confused all at once. These – these moments where Stiles looks at Derek and wants to shove him in a box and keep him away from everything sharp ever and feed him cookies and soup, or when Derek _looks_ at him and Stiles can barely handle it, these moments are just not fair.

He can handle it when he’s arguing with Derek, snark and sarcasm and barbs. How is he supposed to handle this when Derek looks fucking soft like that?

“Actually, yeah,” Derek says, and sits down a few feet from Stiles. Between him and the door, of course, because he thinks he’s subtle. “Started T-Ball when I was four. Right up until I started to shift and my mom made me take a couple years off to get used to it. I started basketball after that, though. Never got the lacrosse thing.”

“I’d kick you if I could move,” Stiles informs him.

At least he’s not picturing a tiny Derek Hale playing T-Ball anymore. That’s an image Stiles never needed.

It’s almost as bad as Derek grinning at him. _Face_.

Stiles is really, really screwed.

Later, Derek nods at him. “Let me take some of the pain tomorrow.”

“What?” Stiles makes a face. “No.”

“You need to be able to walk to get out of here,” Derek says, like that makes any sense.

“No, seriously, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Derek stretches his legs out in front of him. God only knows how long he’s been wearing those jeans, they’re splattered with blood, mostly his own but some probably Stiles’, and the way the denim stretches across his thighs still makes Stiles a little breathless. That is so unfair. There is no logical way that he should still look like a Greek god right now.

“If they do this to you again, they’re going to kill you,” Derek says. It’s so monotone that Stiles is almost offended. “So tomorrow we’re leaving, one way or another. And you need to be able to walk out of here.”

“Derek–”

“My plant needs to be watered,” Derek interrupts. “It’s time to go home.”

For a moment, Stiles can’t think of anything to say. He bought Derek the damn plant in the first place. Dad sent him to the greenhouse to get flowers for the garden beds, and he found the most annoyed looking little cactus he’d ever seen. Prickly and defensive and also slightly adorable, and it’d seemed perfect for Derek. Plus it’d only been four dollars, so he bought it and gave it to Derek the next time he saw him. As a joke. Obviously. Something to make fun of Derek about.

He hadn’t expected the asshole to keep it.

“Do me a favour,” Stiles says eventually.

Derek hums, noncommittal.

“If something – if something happens, could you tell my dad–”

“No.”

Stiles recoils. “What? Dude –

“It’s not happening,” Derek says sharply.

Fine. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.

 

 

When he’s reasonably certain Stiles isn’t concussed (again?) and about to spew all over the place, Derek slides the pizza box over next to him.

“You should eat,” he says. “Help yourself heal.”

The kid’s still pissed at him, but he also has barely eaten in days. He doesn’t last long before pulling the box closer to him and grabbing a slice. He even eats angrily, for gods sake. Oh, well. At least he’s eating. Angrily. And he’s angry through the two slices of pizza he eats, irritably shoves the box at Derek and complains at him to eat, falls asleep with an almost literal black cloud above his head.

Grumpy Bear, he thinks suddenly, oddly. The crabby blue Care Bear. He doesn’t even know why he knows that. Neither of his sisters liked them. Laura was a Scooby-Doo fan, and Cora was too much of a little ball of energy to even have a favourite show. She was so annoying to watch TV with, always begging to do something, to go play, to run around. They used to dare her to run around the house, or up and down the stairs, anything just so she’d leave them alone. Once when she was three or four, they actually ended up playing fetch with her for like two weeks until Mom caught them. She liked it better than catch, though, even once she actually got the hang of catching the ball. More running.

Derek stretches out and tries to make himself the least amount of uncomfortable he can. He wonders for a moment if Cora remembers that. Hopes she does. Maybe they should have talked about the good times more.

Stiles mutters in his sleep and flings himself onto his stomach. He’s been having nightmares, Derek thinks. About the nogitsune, maybe, but he’s not entirely convinced that’s all. Last night Derek woke up to the kid muttering about clownfish. When Derek said his name, he’d opened his eyes, told Derek to stop being such a sea turtle, and immediately fallen back asleep. Although to be honest, Derek wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles was always just a loud sleeper. It’s not like he’s spent a lot of time in bed with him.

And now he’s thinking about Stiles in bed. Awesome. Because when he’s trapped in a windowless basement with a bathroom with no door, he needs to be thinking about a pale, gangly nerd and what he’d look like against Derek’s sheets.

Derek mutters a curse, cracks his neck, and begins to focus on the next day. At least, he thinks it’s night still, that it'll be morning soon. He’s lost track of time, some. He never wears a watch – something about the noise of the inner workings of most analog watches drives him absolutely crazy, and he doesn’t trust digital – and obviously his phone is long gone. Stiles usually wears a watch, some too-big clunky thing that has a reassuring tick, and looks inherited from a grandfather, maybe, but he doesn’t have it on now. Derek kind of hopes he left it at home. He wears it a lot. If it’s important to him…

He should be sleeping, Derek tells himself. He needs to be strong tomorrow. He needs to be able to make sure that Stiles can get out, and he needs to be strong to do that.

Derek closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Stiles’ heart.

“They’re making noise,” Stiles says all too soon, waking Derek abruptly.

He winces awake. “Okay.”

“There’s kind of a lot of yelling.” When Derek opens his eyes, Stiles is _very_ close. Like, sitting next to Derek half curled into himself, nearly touching, Derek can feel the heat radiating off his body, _close_. “It’s kind of freaking me out a little and I’m kind of not medicated in the slightest so freaking out is kind of freaking me out and I may end up swallowing my tongue.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says, yawning as he sits up. He wraps an absent hand around Stiles’ good ankle. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

It’s a stupid, hasty promise, tripped off a clumsy, half-asleep tongue. One he’s never going to be able to keep.

The tension through Stiles’ body eases slightly.

He needs to try walking again today. They probably have a few hours before somebody comes down to get one of them, and Derek needs Stiles to be in the best possible shape. And considering he looks like shit, that won’t be an easy feat. The bruises on his face are darkening, he’s favouring one of his hands in a way that Derek only hopes isn’t a break, and gods only know what else that Derek can't see and Stiles won't tell him about.

Then the door opens.

It’s too early.

The sounds are all wrong, the footsteps too fast, and Derek looks over to see one of their captors racing down the stairs. Something makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he sits forward, on edge, a second before the shooting starts.

Derek does the only thing he can think to – and that’s to throw himself bodily over Stiles. Stiles hits the floor with a surprised noise punched out of him, Derek’s hand under his head to stop his skull from bouncing off the floor. Vaguely, he can hear Stiles talking under him, yelling, maybe, but his back is on fire and his left leg is numb, and he’s just trying to keep his head down and Stiles intact.

And then Stiles cries out, sharp and tight, his fingers digging into Derek’s ribs.

“Shh, shh,” Derek whispers, throat thick with the taste of his own blood. “It’ll be okay.”

It’s not okay.

Stiles is bleeding into his hands. Derek can feel himself fading too fast, and he’s not going to be able to – he’s so sorry, he thinks, stupidly, uselessly.

And then there’s one more shot, louder than the others – and silence.

Derek keeps his head down for a moment. When he’s reasonably certain there won’t be more bullets, he cautiously lifts his head.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Braeden says, and for a wild moment Derek thinks she looks like a goddess.

“Help him,” he manages, rolling away from Stiles, and then there’s the black shit coming out of his nose and mouth. Then there’s Scott kind of covered in blood rushing in, shouting Stiles’ name and dropping to his knees next to him. Then there’s also a whole lot of other people and Derek lets out a breath.

It’ll be okay now. Stiles will be safe now.

Derek drifts for a long time after that. There’s shouting at first, hands on him, followed by dark silence. He surfaces for a while to a period of _very bright lights_ and pain, and decides, nope, the darkness was so much better than this. It’s a relief when there’s a low, soothing murmur, and the thick, heady sensation of some drug rushing through his veins. Must be in shitty shape, he has a second to think before it takes him down, for human drugs to work on him.

To be honest, he’s kind of surprised when he wakes up. Not _where_ he wakes up, but that he wakes up at all. He’s had worse surprises this week, though.

He starts to sit up only to have firm hands on his shoulders pressing him back down.

“Easy, Derek,” Deaton says. “You lost a lot of blood.”

Derek swats Deaton’s hands away – Deaton takes it well enough; maybe Derek’ll try and explain the skin sensitivity later when his synopses are firing again and the world doesn’t look like _a raging ball of fire_ – and covers his face with his arm. _“Light_ ,” he croaks.

“Ah, my apologies,” Deaton says and a moment later everything goes wonderfully, beautifully dark.

Derek exhales slowly, but leaves his arm where it is. “Stiles?”

Deaton shuffles something around somewhere behind Derek. “He’s recuperating nicely in the hospital, I’m told. Should make a full recovery. There’s somebody who’s been waiting to see you, by the way. Feeling up for a visitor?”

What the fuck. He can’t feel worse.

“Sure.”

“You look like shit,” Braeden says when she drops onto a chair next to the exam table he’s on. She spins it until she can throw her feet up on the exam table next to his hip, expensive, battered boots and all. Derek gives a mental shrug. He bought those for her. It’s kind of nice to see a gift of his appreciated, really. He has a long history of being terrible at finding gifts for people. _Long_ history.

“Scott call you?” he asks after a minute.

“I’ve got connections,” is all she says. After a minute, she pokes his hip with her toe. “It’s good to see you’re not dead, by the way.”

Derek manages a bit of a smile, folding one arm under his head. The other still has an IV in it, and it’s such a funny feeling that he’s not moving it too much just in case. “Same. What have you been up to lately?”

She left his life the same way she came into it, sudden and with a little bit of gunfire, and that was okay. He always knew that Beacon Hills was too small for her. She was never going to stay for him, but they were good together while it lasted, and neither of them hurt the other when it ended, which is more than can be said for most of Derek’s relationships. The last he’d heard, she’d been somewhere in Europe.

“ _Gnomes_ ,” Braeden says with more bloodlust than Derek has ever heard in his life. “What the fuck is up with the gnomes?”

“Got those last year,” Derek says, his eyes drifting shut. “They tried to kidnap Stiles. Something about a prophecy. Yanno that thing from Harry Potter where you throw them? Doesn’t work. Stiles tried it, and got bit, and it oozed green for a week. Stunk to high heavens.”

“I fucking hate gnomes,” Braeden mutters, then nudges him again, gentler this time. “Hey. Tell me about the kid.”

She was always too perceptive. Derek may or may not have a thing for that. Also, brown eyes. He’s always liked brown eyes.

“He’s annoying as fuck,” Derek says, yawning. “Sometimes he smells like Play-Doh and it’s disturbing. He never shuts up, and it freaked me out when he was quiet.”

She laughs, softly. “You are a mess, Derek,” she says, not unkindly. “It’s kind of good to see.”

 

 

To be honest, Stiles is kinda surprised he doesn’t wake up handcuffed to his hospital bed. He wouldn’t put it past his dad. Although the fact that he’s been _shot_ is probably gonna keep him on his back for a few days, at least.

“I hate werewolves,” he announces.

“I know, kiddo,” his dad says, eating his Jell-O. And it’s the red stuff with the fruit bits in it, too. _Rude._ “You’ve told me several times now. You want me to get the doctor?”

“Not yet.” Stiles winces a little, moving his arm away from his side. He wants to be home and not be in a hospital bed with that hospital smell soaking into his skin and hair and scratchy hospital sheets… but he also is enjoying regular doses of pain medication. The antibiotics and occasional dose of Xanax to stave off his panic attacks until his regular anxiety meds get back to normal levels doesn’t hurt either. “You need to go get ready for work anyways.”

“Pretty sure when my only son gets kidnapped and lands his ass in the hospital, I can take as much time off as I want.”

“Dad,” Stiles says flatly. “Go away. For the love of God, go away. I can’t spend this much time with you. I love you, but please go away.”

Dad only leaves when Scott shows up.

“You guys aren’t subtle at all,” Stiles says when Scott takes his dad’s seat. “I can tell what you’re doing.”

“Good for you.” Scott leans over to look at the remains of Stiles’ lunch tray. “Aw, man, did your dad eat the Jell-O already?”

And so that’s how it goes for the next few days. Stiles sleeps a lot. A lot of his sleep is heavily influenced by the drugs, he’ll admit. But after nearly a week of sleeping on a cold, damp basement floor, even a hospital bed is an upgrade, and he may or may not end up with a few extra pillows. And, occasionally, a Scott to cuddle with. Not that they call it cuddling, obviously, because they’re manly men who don’t cuddle. Scott and his dad end up stealing the good bits out of his hospital lunches, but Scott also sneaks him in sandwiches and curly fries, so he’s allowed back.

He asked once, when he first woke up in the hospital, where Derek was. If he was okay. Scott had given him a look that he couldn’t stand, and told him Derek was okay, but not there. And fine, whatever. If Derek is having too big of a hissy fit over – over Stiles doesn’t even know _what_ to come see if the person he spent half a week living in a basement with and who actually got shot _through_ him and had to briefly be watched to see if that could make the werewolf thing happen – which, no, it didn’t, by the way although he had a bit of a funny fever and some weird dreams for a while there – well, then fine. Derek could have his hissy fit all to himself.

Stiles is still kind of pissed at him anyways.

Plus he’s irritating and never smiles and broods too much and has no fucking sense of humour. He’s a complete downer, a terrible conservationist, and –

“Smells funny,” Stiles mutters, tugging at a loose thread on his pillowcase.

“I know, I know,” Scott says, yawning, and shifts onto his side in the nice reclining hospital chair. It’s really not the worst place Stiles has ever seen Scott crash, but he _should_ be at home in his own bed. Technically he’s not even still supposed to be here, considering when visiting hours ended. “Shut up and go back to sleep already.”

“It’s loud.”

Well. There’s a fair amount of noise. Machines beeping and the soft footsteps of nurses and doctors up and down the hall, the occasional murmur of voices. But his door is shut, and Stiles technically doesn’t have a private room, but he hasn’t had a roommate except for a few hours the other day, and if the resident werewolf can sleep through it all… And the hospital linens could use a little fabric softener, but he’s warm and fairly comfortable. Medicated comfortably.

Maybe… maybe Stiles kind of misses Derek and his stupid face. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even _like_ Derek. He doesn’t. And his ridiculous, utterly impractical crush isn’t even relevant. He’s been dealing with that for years, and he’s never started to actually like Derek. It’s Derek. But… okay, he just – maybe he just wishes that Derek would come see him. For five minutes. So Stiles could see for himself that Derek was okay, seeing as the last time he saw Derek, the asshole was bleeding out from about six gunshot wounds on top of him. From shielding Stiles with his own body from a rain of gunfire.

Look, it’s all very confusing, okay?

“Are you having a panic attack?” Scott asks groggily. “Your heart’s doing weird things.”

“ _I know it is_ ,” Stiles says, half hysterical. “Scotty, you don’t even know the half of it!”

Scott sits up at that, hair ruffled and well on its way to frizzing, and blinks sleepily at Stiles in the dim hospital half-light. “What’s going on?”

“I think I’m having emotions about Derek Hale.”

“Are you kidding me?” Scott flops back down in the chair, rearranging his little blanket/pillow nest thing he’s got going on. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, Stiles. Can we please do this in the morning?”

“ _Scott_. What the hell, man?” Stiles flails at him. “I am having _feelings_ about Derek Hale. Like feelings of the heart variety.”

“I know, I know.” Scott closes his eyes. “I’m crazy over Kira Yukimura, my mom and your dad are dating and think we don’t know, and you and Derek have weird sexual tension. We all know this. Why are you freaking out about it at two in the morning?”

“It’s not just sexual tension,” Stiles says miserably.

Scott sits up, and sighs. “You’re not going to let me sleep until you have your freak out about this, are you?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Okay.” Scott stretches. “Let me go raid the vending machines and see what I can scare up for junk food. Then you can freak out.”

And that’s why Scott is his brother.

 

 

It’s slow healing. Derek spends a couple days in bed more unconscious than not. He wakes up briefly here and there to piss and down a couple gallons of water, occasionally grabbing something that he can take back to bed and eat before passing out again. None of the food was there when he got home. The first time he wakes up expecting to drink tap water, he finds the food, a fresh jug of water on the cooler, a case of bottles in the deep freeze, and a note from Kira. He gave her a key a few years ago, for emergencies. She’s the only one besides Stiles who has one. Stiles just seemed to acquire one.

Derek’s never asked him to give it back, though…

“I’ve got nicer places to stay than your couch,” Braeden had said with a grin when he asked if she needed a place to crash.

He doesn’t really mind. Healing is an inelegant affair.

His sheets are nice. Soft and smooth and familiar. They don’t smell quite right, though. In one of his more lucid moments, he strips the bed and puts clean ones on before showering. Even when he collapses into them, naked and damp, the scent is off. He’s too tired to think about it, though, and he falls asleep almost immediately.

And he doesn't wake up until at least a day later. Stretches against the sheets, feeling the slide of soft cotton over his skin. That is _nice_. He wanders into the kitchen, thinking vaguely about making a sandwich. Maybe throwing something into the crockpot so there’s warm food later.

And then his landline rings.

Honestly, Derek stares at the phone for a long moment before reaching for it. He doesn’t even remember the last time his landline rang, or who it was. A telemarketer, maybe, but his number is unlisted so he doesn’t even get many of those. He’d seriously been considering getting rid of the thing altogether.

“Hello?” he says cautiously.

“Hey!” Kira says brightly. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Derek blinks. After a second, he manages, “Okay. Thanks – thanks for the food.”

“Don’t mention it.” There’s some noise on Kira’s end of the line, shuffling, the slam of a car door. “Hey, I had a major craving for super inauthentic and greasy Chinese food and I figured you wouldn’t be feeling up to cooking. You wanna split a ridiculous amount of food with me?”

“Why don’t you ask Scott?”

“He’s hanging out at the hospital with Stiles,” Kira says cheerfully. “And Stiles isn’t really up for a lot of company yet. C’mon, I’ll bring it over to your place. What do you like? Do you want some Gatorade too? I just got water, but electrolytes would probably be good?”

“No – no, that’s okay,” Derek finds himself saying, and then, “Ginger chicken. Beef and broccoli.” He hears his stomach growl, and admits, “I could probably eat half a cow right now. Do you need money?”

He gives her his credit card number, figuring she can phone in the order and pick it up. Stiles is always complaining about how broke he is. Kira can’t be much better off. And, really, she’s a lot more trustworthy than the others. He doesn’t even want to think about what Stiles could do with the internet and a credit card. Plus Kira’s a super sweet kid and when he says no to her, she looks like he kicked her puppy, and he always feels super guilty.

Derek considers himself very successful that he is still upright, sitting on the couch, and wearing clothing, when Kira gets there. Sweats and a muscle shirt, but clothing none the less.

“How is he?” Derek asks halfway through a carton of beef and broccoli, not looking at her.

“Better,” Kira says, twirling noodles around a pair of chopsticks. “The shot wasn’t too bad, really. He lost some blood, but nothing major was hit, and he was only in surgery for about an hour to get the bullet out and clean things up. He might have to have some work done on his knee later, but for now they’re just going to let it the swelling go down and see how it heals. Bruised up pretty bad. Got a couple fractures in his ribs.” She smiles at him. “But he’s feeling a lot better. He’s sleeping a lot, too.”

Derek exhales slowly, and nods. Something inside him, a deep tension, eases. The kid’s going to be – _Stiles_ is going to be okay. He’s safe in the hospital with Scott, and they’ll take care of him there.

“Okay,” Derek says, softly, and reaches for an egg roll.

He eats ridiculous amounts of food, and Kira keeps pace, which frankly is just impressive considering he’s still, you know, rebuilding muscle mass, healing massive damage to his body, and recovering from being half-starved.

And then she hugs him before she leaves. He goes stiff without meaning to, but she’s enthusiastic anyways. “We were all worried about you, by the way,” she says as she pulls back.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Oh.”

Kira beams and pats him on the arm. “Feel better, okay?”

Derek locks up behind her, and falls back into bed. He’s full and sleepy and he kicks off his clothing, letting himself enjoy the soft, cool sheets. Kira was… nice to talk to, he admits, and Stiles is okay. Stiles is safe and comfortable in the hospital with people who care about him, and modern medicine helping him heal. He’s going to be okay.

And Derek… Derek can let himself want, just a little. He can let himself think about Stiles, healed and whole, about the marks that might be left from his injuries, about the marks that he already has, the moles and freckles and old scars from childhood injuries. The places Derek would map with his hands and his mouth like he could make the old hurts better with his touch. About whether Stiles would be nervously quiet or rambling, eager or hesitating, leading or following.

He knows he can’t have, but for a brief few moments, he can want anyways, and pretend for a moment, that his hands are not his own.

The next few days pass much the same. He sleeps less, but doesn’t have the motivation to do more besides laze in bed reading and watching TV. Finishes the leftover Chinese food that Kira wouldn't hear of taking home with her, throws a couple meals in the crockpot, and eats a lot of sandwiches. Talks to Cora. A lot. And maybe gets a little emotional talking to her, but that’s between the two of them.

Kira checks in with him now and then, updating him on how Stiles is doing. He’s improving steadily, she tells him. Will be able to go home soon.

Derek finds some clothing after a week or so and goes to get himself a new phone. While he’s out, he grabs some groceries – he needs laundry soap something fierce – and drops by Deaton’s because Kira’s been anxiously asking him to get checked over, and he seriously feels like shit making her worry. She’s worse than Cora. Cora’s more likely to threaten him with violence than make him feel _guilty_.

There’s someone in his apartment when he gets home. He tenses for a second before catching the sound of the heartbeat, so familiar he could nearly tap it out in his sleep.

He’s going to fucking kill the kid.

“What the fuck are you doing out of the hospital?” he grinds out as he slams the door open.

Stiles is passed out on his couch.

Derek sighs. Then he closes the door, gently, and goes to put his ice cream in the freezer before it melts. He puts his other groceries away while he’s in the kitchen, somehow reluctant to wake the idiot sleeping on his couch. Sleep is essential to healing, and the process is so much slower and more delicate in humans.

Eventually, though, he has to wake Stiles.

“You’re supposed to be in the hospital,” he says when the kid’s eyelashes flutter.

“They cut me loose.” Stiles’ voice is rough with sleep, and he opens his eyes slowly. “I’m doing better. You?”

“I’m fine.”

Stiles pushes himself up, slowly and laboriously. It looks like it hurts.

“Okay,” Stiles says, a little breathless. “So you’re okay – _then where the fuck have you been_?”

Derek takes a step back. “What?”

Stiles reaches for a pair of crutches that Derek hadn’t noticed before, leaning against the arm of the couch until he gets them under his arms, and levers himself to his feet. There’s a brace on his knee, and the bruises on his face have gone yellow and green.

“Look, I get we’re not besties,” Stiles blurts. “But considering we nearly died in that basement and I’ve been in the hospital for the last week, you could have at least popped in and said hi.” Stiles jabs a crutch at him. “And what was the big idea not agreeing to tell my dad I loved him if I died?”

Derek grabs Stiles by the front of his shirt. “I wasn’t planning on leaving without you, okay?” he half-shouts.

Stiles – Stiles stares at him, mouth hanging open. “Derek–”

“I was going to get you out of there no matter what it took.” Derek’s knuckles are going white in the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. “And if you died, I wasn’t planning on leaving at all, _okay?_ ”

 

 

Stiles can’t breathe right. And okay, part of that is his still-healing ribs because, hey, when you get the shit beat out of you, apparently the ribs take a while to heal, but also… also Derek may or may not have taken his breath away a little. Stupid self-sacrificing werewolf with stupid fluffy hair and pretty eyes and what the _fuck_ was Derek thinking saying something like that?

“You asshole,” Stiles breathes, and shoves Derek, hard. He hurts his hand where it’s still recovering from being twisted behind his back until something popped and he screamed, but he’s so pissed he barely feels it. “You aren’t allowed to die for me! That’s – that’s – _not allowed_.”

He shoves Derek again, surprised when Derek lets himself be pushed backwards, letting go of his shirt.

“No, you get back here,” Stiles grits out, hopping forward on his crutches until he’s practically chest to chest with Derek again. “You are not allowed to die for me, Derek Hale. Actually, no, you’re not allowed to die at all.”

“Stiles–”

“ _Not allowed_ ,” Stiles threatens wildly, breathing too hard.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, only it’s softer. Not a protest, anymore.

“No,” Stiles whispers, half a sob in his voice, and then he kisses Derek.

Derek makes a noise, almost delicate, and Stiles expects – well, he expects to be shoved back or jerked away from, but instead, Derek’s fingers slip into his hair, wrapping around the back of his head. Stiles’ brain wants to use stupid words like _cradle_ and _tender_ , and he forces them away. Because any minute now, any second now, Derek was going to stop him, stop this, and he was going to – going to –

He’s not stopping.

Oh God. This is a kiss and it’s with _Derek_ and it’s not stopping and when Stiles realizes it, he melts into it. Everything turns soft and warm and just a little wet, and so _easy_. They should have been doing this for years.

It’s only when Stiles tries to move closer and wobbles on his crutches that Derek pulls away.

His hands settle onto Stiles’ arms. “You’re going to fall down,” he says, and the words sound like they should be gruff. They’re anything but. “Sit, sit down.”

Stiles finds himself on the couch almost without realizing how. A second later, Derek sits on the coffee table in front of him, still close enough to touch. Stiles’ bad knee is straight in front of him, but his other ends up in the empty space between Derek’s legs, and for a second he can’t think.

That lasts for a minute before he begins to brace himself. This is when he gets the lecture. The age difference lecture, because Stiles is an asshole when the people he love are in danger, but that look on Derek’s face when he threw Kate Argent in his face has haunted him for _years_ , or the guilt lecture, or – or whatever lecture he was going to get that would supposedly explain why he didn’t get to keep Derek. And it’s not like he hasn’t dealt with his fair share of rejection – _so much rejection_ – but this is Derek who’s…

It’s Derek who’s leaning in and bringing their mouths together once more.

Okay.

This kiss is different. After a second of almost hesitant contact, like Derek expects to be shoved away, his hands come up and frame Stiles’ face, hot and firm and big, skin a little rough, and angles them just right. And the way Derek kisses is… desperate. Stiles kind of flails for a second, hands in the air before the injured one kind of flops back into his lap, useless, and the other grabs onto Derek’s side. He wants to touch, everywhere, and he momentarily curses the assholes who took them solely for making it so he only has one hand, but only momentarily because after that he’s a little distracted.

A little a lot distracted.

Derek’s eyes stay closed when he pulls away.

Stiles stares at him. God, he’s beautiful sometimes, he thinks, in those moments when his face goes soft, eyelashes sweeping shadows against his cheeks and mouth not pressed into that tight, thin line.

“I thought you were going to die in that basement.” Derek settles a hand onto Stiles’ thigh, hesitant and soft like he’s still expecting to be rejected. “I thought they were going to kill you. And I… you remember last spring when I…”

“Ran away from being human?” Stiles inserts helpfully.

“Yeah,” Derek says after a moment, looking like he regrets ever speaking to Stiles. “Sure. _Anyways_. I didn’t mean to, you know,” he says, words carefully chosen. “I went for a run, and it was just… easier to stay like that. Things were quieter. I didn’t have to try and think about my family, or – or my _mortgage_ , even. I lost track of time, and myself.”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip. This is one of those things they don’t normally talk about, that thing where Stiles kinda had Derek tranq’d and brought into Deaton's with a dart in his ass by a forest ranger. He figured it was kinder to Derek’s dignity not to mention it. He should get to actually have some dignity once and a while, shouldn’t he?

“Do you remember what brought me back?” Derek asks.

“I threatened to bathe you,” Stiles mutters, grinning a bit. “There may have been talk of pink bows on your ears. To be fair, you smelled like shit.”

“And?” Derek’s voice is remarkably patient.

Stiles drops his eyes to his legs, picking at the knee of his jeans. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “I called Cora and she flew in. You weren’t… violent, or anything, so I kind of waited with you at Deaton’s while we were waiting for her flight to get in.” He shrugs. “You know how I am when it’s quiet.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Derek covers Stiles’ hand with his. “When you go away like that, you need to have something to come back to. An – an anchor, but more, too.”

“That’s why I called Cora.”

Derek stares at him. “Are you being obtuse on purpose?”

“What?”

“Think about it for a minute.”

Stiles thinks about it. “Oh,” he says after a minute, staring at Derek. “You mean I’m you – you – me?”

“You’re one of the things I think about coming back to,” Derek says, so solemnly. “Thinking about not having you to come back to – it just was not going to be an option for me, do you get it?”

“That is creepy and obsessive and a little weird,” Stiles says… and then leans closer. “Now put your hand back on my face, I liked that.”

 

 

“I can stay for a bit,” Stiles says, and so that’s what happens.

Derek cautiously mentions dinner – he’s got a pot roast in the oven, but it won’t be done for a few hours – and Stiles kind of preens. They end up on the couch watching a movie that Derek has very little interest in, but Stiles chatters excitedly about, and Derek, well, he’d do a lot more to make Stiles happy, he thinks, as he helps Stiles put his knee up on the footrest of the couch, puts a pillow under it, grabs a couple more and some blankets while he’s in the linen closet. It’s chilly in the loft fairly often, drafty, and he’s ended up with a handful of soft, warm blankets for the couch.

“Blanket nest,” Stiles says happily, and Derek lets him arrange the blankets and Derek’s own body until he’s satisfied. It’s closer than Derek would have sat originally, with Stiles half on top of him. Derek is pressed pleasantly into the couch, with Stiles a nice, heavy weight on top of him, warm and… well, kind of bony, really, but comfortable anyways.

They fit together well, Derek thinks, as he lets his hands settle onto Stiles where they feel right, being careful to avoid the sore spots. Stiles is about as still as he ever is – back on his meds, Derek’s pretty sure – but he starts to squirm halfway through the movie. It’s not his normal type of restless movement, though, more…

“Do you need to take something?” Derek asks. “You have pain pills, right?”

“Yeah, in my bag.”

Derek starts to extract himself. “I’ll go get you some water.”

Stiles grabs him. “No! This is the perfect blanket nest. Don’t move.”

“You’re hurting, you idiot,” Derek says mildly. “It’s not perfect if you’re in pain.” He pauses. “I – unless you wanna let me…” He loses the words and holds out his hand instead. “Only if you’re okay with it, I mean,” he manages to add.

Stiles takes a slow, deep breath – and takes Derek’s hand. “Okay.”

Derek takes his pain slow, a little drain at a time, so the ache eases slow and gentle. Not a big rush, and they both hurt a little longer, but Derek thinks Stiles might find it easier that way. He relaxes bit by bit against Derek, until the last of his pain has slipped away.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Ten minutes later, he’s asleep.

Derek kisses his temple, and tucks the blankets a little closer around him.

 

 

“You brought me a milkshake,” Stiles says sleepily, pushing up on his elbows on the couch. He hadn’t actually meant to fall asleep, but Derek’s couch is _really_ comfortable, and there were blankets and even though it’s been a couple weeks now since Stiles got out of the hospital, he’s still healing. Déjà vu, though, he thinks, and smiles.

“I did,” Derek says, leaning over. He pauses, then hesitantly kisses Stiles hello.

He still acts sometimes like Stiles is going to stop him, like he doesn’t want this. Like he’s not crazy about Derek. They’re still… new, Stiles knows. It’s only been about two weeks since that day when things got all emotional, and Stiles hasn’t exactly been in prime dating condition. Or prime anything condition besides snuggles on the couch, and even that he kind of tends to fall asleep during.

“Oh,” Stiles says cautiously. “Scott called while you were gone.” He clears his throat. “The police, um, found the last one.”

“The last – oh.” Derek goes quiet for a long moment. It was – Allison suggested it, that they let one of their kidnappers ‘escape’. After the others were dealt with. It sends a message, Allison says.

Stiles, well. He was in surgery, and he’s pretty sure Derek might still have been having bullets taken out of him, too. Neither of them exactly had a lot of say in the matter, but Allison’s got a mind like an arrow when it comes to strategy, sharp and deadly. She’s not the ruling matriarch of the Argent family for no reason. They may have a different code, a different goal, these days, but they’re no less lethal when it’s needed.

The thing is, though. Other hunters are not like the Argents.

The last one won’t be coming back.

The police, more accurately, found the _pieces_ of him.

“Okay,” Derek says after a long, tense moment. “I got you curly fries, but you gotta eat the salad, too, or you can’t have them.”

“Asshole,” Stiles replies, because it’s too early to tell Derek he loves him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Derek comes in with the food, and a couple plates. He’s so weird sometimes. It’s wonderful. “Screw me for wanting to keep you around longer.”

Stiles pulls his good leg in towards him, letting the other drop comfortably onto the floor so Derek can take the other end of the couch. After a second, he pokes his toes out from under the blanket and gives Derek’s thigh a nudge. Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles attempts to structure his face into something that looks just pathetic enough.

"My toes are cold."

“You have a blanket.”

“Your butt is better though,” Stiles says, nudging him again. “Please?”

Derek sighs. Then he shifts so there’s a gap between his ass and the couch.

Stiles hums happily and sticks his toes under Derek’s butt. Warm toes, a strawberry milkshake and curly fries, and someone who cares about him enough to harass him into eating vegetables. It’s too early for Derek to tell him he loves him, and it’s too early for Stiles to say he loves Derek, but Stiles thinks maybe they both know it a little anyways, and he doesn’t mind waiting for this.

“You might as well put your foot up here now,” Derek says. “You’re gonna bug me about in ten minutes anyways.”

Stiles puts his foot on Derek’s thigh, and smiles.

Yeah. This is good.


End file.
